Scandal (3 page)

“Some days it feels that way,” he heard her murmur, clutching that silly child’s toy of hers like it was her only treasure. And perhaps it was.

Rein looked away, the anger chipping at his cheek again. Damn them. He’d been dropped in St. Giles, of all places. Why not the docks? Or Whitechapel? Gracious, if his uncle wanted him dead, there were easier ways to do it. And for half a moment he thought about going back to the solicitor and telling him exactly how he felt. Outraged. Angered. Furious. Surely the probate court had noted the ludicrous nature of the will. He should contest it immediately.

Only the idea of giving up so quickly stung. No, it rankled. His uncle had obviously thought such a challenge beyond Rein. Rein would be damned before he proved his uncle right.

The sound of a child’s cry rang out from the landing below, a plaintive wail that brought to mind hunger. Other sounds could be heard, too. Coughing, yelling, a cacophony of noise that filled Rein’s ears and made his head ache like the very devil. The wooden stairs they climbed were scuffed with marks, as if a thousand heavy feet had scaled them with soles as hard as stone. The stairs creaked with every step, the sound echoing off the narrow walls that had been plastered at one time or another, but had long since lost that plaster to clenched fists or age.

“I’m afraid my grandfather is away for the moment,” said the small sprite next to him as they came to what must have been her landing, her kite balanced on a finger before her. “I should warn you,” she added, “our rooms are a bit…” He glanced down, but she wasn’t looking at him; rather, she looked at the door and frowned, the cloak she wore so battered and worn he knew it’d been years since it was new. “Rather at sixes and sevens,” she finished.

Rein didn’t move, just waited for her to open the door. She seemed to have to force herself to do so, reaching out to give the door a turn and a tug.

Sixes and sevens, Rein decided a second later, did not begin to describe it.

Strange contraptions covered every available surface of the small, small room. Odd things like a table with a ladder affixed to the side of it, and a giant wheel with stirrups attached to a huge fireplace bellows pointed directly at them. Shelves covered every available wall, odd bottles and devices on surfaces not taken up by books.

But beneath it all lay a poverty no amount of machinery could disguise: a bare wooden floor, each board as nicked and scarred as an old coin. Three dirty windows stretched across the front, one threadbare and dingy armchair sitting near a hearth crouched low in one corner.

“My grandfather is an inventor,” she said in a solemn little voice.

“What does he invent?”

“Things,” she said. “Or he used to, before he became ill.”

“I see,” he said.

She peered up at him, then back into the room again, perhaps seeing it from his perspective for the first time, for she frowned, her teeth—very healthy teeth, he noticed—nibbling her bottom lip.

And well she should look askance, not that he’d be rude enough to point that out to her. “It is—”

“Don’t say it,” she said. “I know. I do me best to keep it clean, but it never seems to work. Grandfather comes fumbling in and messes it all up. Here. Sit down.” She guided him toward the armchair. “But first let’s see about getting you cleaned up.” She undid her cloak, removing it as she turned away from him so she could hang it by the door, and when she turned back to him, Rein received his second shock of the day.

“You’re not a child, are you?”

Chapter Two

Rein watched as her hand froze. The arm she held toward him had stilled. “Child?”

Rein’s head suddenly ached even more. “You’re not. Good lord,” he huffed. “I had no idea.”

Perhaps it was the way the light came from behind him to illuminate her plain brown dress with its V-shaped lace collar, the apron around her waist accentuating her trim figure. Perhaps he merely started to think straight. Whatever the reason, for the first time Rein looked beneath the cloak of poverty she wore.

She had unusual and rather pretty amber eyes. Intelligence sparked from within those eyes. A startling amount of intelligence.

And as he leaned back and observed the whole, he admitted she was rather like a rose, one he might pass by because it looked dull and colorless, but which upon closer inspection revealed petals not dull at all, but rather a striking combination of colors rarely seen. Such was she, her hair not red, not blond, but rather a combination of the two, like a mist near a waterfall that turned gold and red in sunlight. She had delicate features, too, small nose and chin, and yet those eyes. Her eyes dominated her small face, the only thing seeming to counterbalance it a set of full lips that looked plump as summer strawberries.

She was staring at him in confusion that quickly turned to concern. “No idea ’bout what?”

He shook his head, winced, then said, “But I suppose it matters not.”

“Matters not?”

She didn’t understand. Not at all. And then he reminded himself that this was not a Mayfair drawing room he sat in. Alas, they were far from that. Obviously, she had no notion of the social protocol that disallowed a man and woman to be in the same room together… alone. And why would she?

“Please ignore my ramblings,” he said. “I find I am rather scrambled.”

Not surprising, given all that had just happened. Lord, he still couldn’t believe the predicament he found himself in.

“If you are scrambled it is because of me,” she said, holding out her hands again—rather worn hands, he noticed. Work-worn. “Please, give me the coat, Mr….”

He looked up. A name. She wanted a name. “Hemple,” he said quickly. Gads. Hemple? “Wilt,” he added, which wasn’t much of an improvement.

“Mr. Hemplewilt?” she said, looking oddly relieved. “You remembered your name is Mr. Hemplewilt? Lawks, that’s a relief. I feared I might have ruined your jobbernole forevermore.”

Jobbernole? She must mean
head.

“And do you now remember being dropped off in St. Giles?”

St. Giles? Why the devil would she ask such a question? Of course he remembered—

And then it hit him.

Good lord. She believed him concussed.

And in the next second something else hit him, an idea, one that made his eyes narrow, though it tugged at his injury as he did so.

Why not?
he asked himself. Why not let her go on thinking he was ill? He had no place else to go, having been stripped of coin, valuables and, good lord, even his signet ring. If he let her go on thinking…

“I’m afraid I don’t remember being dropped in St. Giles,” he said, studying her reaction to see if it was as he expected.

And, indeed, she looked so horror-stricken he almost took pity on her. But he had far too much at stake to let such a silly emotion as pity take a hold of him.

“In fact, I wonder if I might stay here a bit,” he added. “Until I recover.”

“Stay here?”

“Indeed.”

“But—”

“I assure you, ’twill only be until I recover myself from the injury your toy inflicted.”

That sent a look of guilt into her eyes—exactly his intent.

“Of course,” he added, “if you’d rather I leave, I shall certainly understand. I do hope, however, that I can find my way home.”

“Oh, ah…” Her teeth worked those plump lips of hers. “I’m not—”

“Just for an hour or two.”

“Yes, but I’ve got to return to selling my wares at Covent Market. If I leave you here, you would be alone, since my grandfather is away. When he returns—”

“I’ll introduce myself,” Rein finished.

“No, ’tis not that.” Those teeth went to work again. “He’s rather odd, you see.”

“Really?” he asked, and if she’d been a member of the
ton,
she would have recognized the politely curious look he gave her.

“Yes, well, if you think his inventions are odd, you should meet the man himself.”

“Rumpled clothes,” he theorized. “Messy gray hair, vacant look in his eyes?”

“Exactly,” she said with a smile.

Rein became motionless as he observed the effect the smile drew on her face. What was before merely pretty became simply stunning. Good lord, what was such a rare gem doing in St. Giles? Someone ought to have plucked her for his mistress long before now.

Her smile faded, and then she stilled suddenly, too, almost as if she’d sensed the direction his thoughts had taken. And indeed, for half a moment he found himself wondering if he might seduce her, found himself thinking that to do so might be an interesting diversion. Alas, he admitted with a sigh, he had no time for diversions, at least not yet.

She must have misinterpreted his sigh, for she said, “Here, now. Do not fret.”

Fret? Not in a great many years.

“I suppose it’ll do little harm to have you rest here a bit. But you mustn’t touch a thing. Grandfather is very particular about his inventions.”

“I shall not stir from this chair.”

She gazed down at him a bit longer, almost as if she stared at a rare bird that had somehow found its way into her room. He supposed he was that rare bird, one she’d likely not see again in her lifetime—a duke. Far, far above her plebeian world.

“Well, then I suppose this is goodbye.”

No, not for a bit. His eyes swept her up and down. Not for a long bit. “I suppose it is.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Hemplewilt.”

“And you, too, Miss…”

“Anna Rose Brooks,” she said with a nod.

Now it was his turn to smile, though the urge to do so took him by surprise. “Rose is your middle name?”

“It is.”

“I breed roses.”

“You breed roses?”

“Indeed.”

“That means you must have land.”

He pretended to have to think on that answer, and, indeed, he was wondering how much to tell her, or rather, how much he was
allowed
to tell her. “A great deal of it,” he told her truthfully.

“So you’re a gentleman?”

“I am.” Which was true, too, he thought, though he refrained from telling her who he was. Perfect.

“Landed gentry,” she seemed to murmur to herself. “I’m not at all surprised.”

“You would be a
Rosa damascena,
” he found himself saying. Odd, because he hadn’t meant to speak, nor say something so ridiculously florid. Usually, he merely crooked a finger to get a woman’s attention. “Or a damask rose. Delicate, beautiful, yet hardy enough to survive in any environment.”

She lifted a brow, and to his surprise went through a transformation, one that gently rebuked him even as she placed her hands on her hips. “And how many times have you said
that
to a woman?”

“I am not at all sure,” he answered honestly, having to press his lips together to keep from laughing. Lord, laughing. An hour ago, he would have sworn such a thing would be impossible.

“That I can believe.”

“But never have I meant it more.” Which was also true.

“I’m certain you haven’t,” she said with a scoff-filled shake of her head, but then her eyes narrowed in on his bruise and all rebuke fled. “There’s a wash pump two buildings over. You could cleanse your wound and your jacket there, then hang it before a fire to dry, though you’ll need to stoke the coals. Do not, however, attempt to use the bellows attached to the wheel,” she warned.

And then she backed away.

“Adieu,” he said with a nod.

“Good morn,” she said, snatching her cloak and turning toward the door.

His gaze dropped to her sumptuous derriere. He couldn’t help it. It was a fetish of his, a woman’s bottom. She had a rather delectable one, he noted. Nice and round, with just enough flesh around the hips to offer a good grip.

“Goodbye, Anna,” he said softly, and for his ears alone, testing the name on his tongue, rolling it, savoring it like he would a small candy. And he did like it… her name. He was quite fascinated by it, and her.

And if Anna had seen the look that came over Rein’s face, if she’d seen the rakish, hell-raising, rooster of a smile that lifted the corner of his lips, she might have felt a great deal less complacent about leaving a stranger in her home.

A great deal less complacent, indeed.

Chapter Three

Four hours later, as an exhausted Anna climbed the stairs to her grandfather’s apartment, the straw hat she wore to market dangling from her grasp by its ribbons, she still thought of him.

Mr. Hemplewilt.

Tired as she was, her heart pumped in reaction to the silent recalling of his name. Lord, it was a good thing he wouldn’t be there when she returned, she admitted as she lifted a leg that felt as heavy as a ham hock and climbed another step. She hadn’t liked the way staring at that fancy gentleman made her feel. Excited. Curious. And, yes, dreamy as a girl of sixteen. As if she had time for silly dreams!

She paused on a step, though it took her a moment to realize that the reason she’d paused was to cock her head.

And there it was again: the asthmatic
poof-poof-poooof
she’d come to dread. Her grandfather’s favorite invention.

Blast it,
she thought, taking the next four steps two at a time, her cloak entangling in her legs for the second time that day and nearly causing her to tumble. Just what she needed. He shouldn’t be playing with that bloody machine again, not after what had happened last time. Lord, they’d been nearly run out of the building by the landlord and her fellow tenants.

She tossed her hat onto the landing, then reached for the door, taking the time to gain her strength before opening the thing. She’d need all the energy she could muster, for she could feel the hem of her cloak rustle from the gusts of air that reached like a hand beneath the door and jerked on the hem of her cloak.

“Heaven help me,” she said, placing her fingers on the handle as she mentally counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

She braced herself as she turned the knob, and a good thing, too, for as soon as the catch gave, wind gusts from the other side of the door nearly knocked her off her feet. Papers flew, as did dust and a lone insect that no doubt wondered what sort of nasty business it’d stumbled into as it flew by at hurricane speed. She had to squint to see into the room.

“And… the faster… you pedal…” her grandfather huffed as his feet pushed on the leather straps of his Colossal Air Current Creator, his stark white hair plastered against his head as the pressure escaped the room, “the faster… the bellows… pump.”

And through the papers and the dust and the debris, she saw him.

Mr. Hemplewilt sat upright in the armchair, an expression of horror, fear and fascination on his face as he clutched the armrests and watched her grandfather pedal nowhere fast. His eyes met hers.

Anna felt the wave hit her again, or perhaps it was her grandfather’s invention. The giant bellows happened to be pointed in her direction, the result being that she got the worst of it. She put an arm up to shield her eyes and she screamed at Mr. Hemplewilt, “Get out.”

“Get out?” he mouthed back, as if he hadn’t quite heard her, and perhaps he hadn’t, for the machine was terribly loud.

“Get out,” she called again.

Mr. Hemplewilt got up slowly, his eyes moving back to her grandfather almost as if he were about to witness a carriage accident and he was held rooted to the spot by morbid curiosity.

“Mr. Hemplewilt,” she called more sternly.

He crossed carefully past her grandfather, his steps gradually growing faster. Perhaps he sensed that things were coming to a crisis, or perhaps he became propelled by the wind gusts flying through the room. Either way, he ended up moving quite quickly.

“What of your grandfather?” he asked as he darted past her.

“He won’t stop pedaling,” she said. “It’s an addiction of sorts. He goes and goes until the final cataclysm.”

“Cataclysm?”

“You’ll see.”

Anna stepped back, using the tips of her fingers to pull the door toward her. Mr. Hemplewilt helped, and together they got the thing closed—just in time, as it turned out, for the bladder that had been slowly filling with air to the right of the machine suddenly burst with a pop that snapped at Anna’s ears. Her grandfather’s mad cackle of glee rang out.

The silence afterward was nearly deafening. Well, silence but for the moan of wind that escaped from beneath the door with a high-pitched whistle until paper and debris clogged it.

“What the blazes
was
that?” Mr. Hemplewilt asked.

“The Colossal Air Current Creator.”

“Colossal
what
?”

“Air Current Creator.”

And there it was again… that rumble she’d first heard down on the street below, only this time it turned quickly into deep, masculine laughter.

Anna stared. She blinked, too, but only a few times. Lord, he was a sight now that he no longer had mud covering his face. He had ivory skin so soft it spoke of a valet’s care and a lifetime of leisure. Neatly trimmed black hair stopped just above his shoulders. And that scar. Aye, he had a scar across his chin, one that caught the meager amount of light that oozed out of a small window above them.

“Amazing,” he huffed. “I have never, not ever, seen such a thing in my life. Your grandfather should be knighted just for daring to ride such an instrument.”

Anna blinked some more.

“What is its purpose?”

She pulled her gaze away, felt the oddest sensation in her mouth, rather like the time she’d bitten into that persimmon and gotten the moisture sucked out of her tongue for her troubles. “It’s ah…” She had to work her mouth a bit. “It’s supposed to be used to chill buildings.”

“Is it really?”

“It is.”

To which he looked utterly delighted. “I might like such a thing myself.”

He stopped himself so quickly Anna had a feeling he’d been about to say more. And then she noticed something else. “What the blazes happened to your clothes?” she asked as her eyes darted over his threadbare brown coat and buff breeches with leather patches on the knee so old and worn they looked as scarred as the surface of the moon.

“I sold them,” he said quickly.

“You
sold
them?”

“Indeed. For a half crown and a shilling plus what I’m wearing.”

Half crown one shilling? He’d gotten a touch over a half a crown for that fine jacket with the collar that made Anna long to rest her face against it? And for his boots, too? She opened her mouth, about to tell him he’d been cheated—and royally—but something in his expression stopped her, something that made her think he knew he’d been taken, but that he’d been willing to take the coin because he was desperate for it.

“Who
are
you?” she suddenly found herself asking again, for she had a feeling he was much more than a landed gentleman. Then once she asked that, she couldn’t stop the rush of words. “What are you doing in St. Giles? And most importantly, why are you still here?”

“Who am I?” he repeated, his eyes looking suddenly dark. Her hands pressed against the door as she became aware of the smallness of the landing they shared. Lawks, it was almost as if he meant to discombobulate her.

“I am a man who finds himself before you through wretched fate and circumstance.” Those eyes of his burned into hers. “One who needs your help, Miss Anna Rose Brooks.”

She swallowed, the gulp feeling like a ton of bricks as it went down. “Yes, but why?” she found the intelligence to ask. “Why are you here? Do you remember now?”

He drew back, and Anna realized then that he’d sidled next to her without her even noticing it.

“As to that, I lost a wager.”

“A wager?”

“Indeed,” he said. “For it came to me quite suddenly. My memory, that is. Indeed, I lost a wager to a chum of mine, thereby forcing me to live on the streets for one month’s time.”

To live where? Lud, she could hardly concentrate. Oh, yes… live on the streets. She straightened, almost knocking him in the chin as she did so. He was that close. “Live on the streets?”

“Aye, for one month’s time.”

“Here, in the rookery?”

“Indeed,” he said, the mint-scented word almost making her forget her next words. Almost.

“Have you damaged your knowledge box?”

“Not since this morning,” he said with a wry grin.

“Do you know what it’s like to live here in the rookery?” she asked. “’Tis dangerous, it is—too dangerous for the likes of you. Men will cut your throat for the buttons on your jacket. Well, mayhap not now, but still, murderers and convicts roam freely while those silly watchmen call out the weather… as if anyone cares a rabbit’s whisker that fog is overhead. And if a cutthroat doesn’t get you, then likely a sickness will. The sewers alone will make you ill.”

She shook her head, placing her hands against the flat of the door. “Do yourself a favor, Mr. Hemplewilt. Forget about your wager and go back to your home, wherever that may be.”

He’d begun to stare at her strangely. Oh, he still peered down at her intently, those lovely eyes of his unblinking as they held her own. But his gaze had narrowed, flicking around her face until finally settling upon her lips.

“You sound rather impassioned.”

She lifted her chin, though that brought their two heads closer. “I should be, for this wasn’t always my life.”

“No?”

“No, indeed.” She forced herself to hold her ground, though she wanted to dart around him and gain some distance. Still, she didn’t move, just held his gaze as she said, “I was raised in Porthollow, on the coast, in as pretty a house as you’ve ever seen, but then my parents died and I had to come here. I still remember the shock, the horror, the fear. It’s not a place for a fancy mort like yourself.”

“Ah, but you see…” He reached up and touched her cheek. She shivered. She coiled. She couldn’t breathe. He touched her. He shouldn’t. She let him. “I shan’t be here alone.
I
shall be living with
you
.”

What had he said? Lord, she couldn’t think again. That touch of his hand made her buntlings twist like a pair of wringing hands. Again she seemed to feel a wave of air, a great big rolling one that all but pulled her feet out from under her. Or perhaps that was her grandfather’s invention as it slowly died down, air from beneath the door trying its best to reach her cloak. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, from the other side. Or perhaps that was her heart?

“I…” She swallowed.
“What?”

His hand stroked the line of her jaw, the look on his face filled with curiosity as he gently touched her, almost impassively, like a great master might touch his favorite work of art.

“Your grandfather,” he said softly. “He invited me to stay, in exchange for the half crown I earned selling my clothes.”

Stay? What was he—

She stiffened, their bodies brushed and she finally darted around him, her back to the stairs as she said, “What?”

His eyes looked into her own, the corner of his mouth lifting up as he said, “And I find myself quite looking forward to it.”